Not There, Not All Here

A decent breeze is blowing, considering the time of year, though if the house were a sailing boat and the land were water we'd be barely moving. It's enough to rustle the mulberry tree's leaves and make their shadows dance on the brown lawn, and now and then is strong enough to make the curtains belly into the house for a second or two, but it's no wind for travelers. I wouldn't mind traveling in summer, if the land-bound house and all the lines that tie me to this place were not a burden.

I wouldn't mind being in San Francisco, feeling a stronger breeze, or perhaps nosing about one or another of my old haunts in Pasadena or Santa Monica. But who would feed the cats? Who would keep up with the various tasks the place demands? So here I am, making do with the rustling leaves and the scent of dry grass the breeze carries from the nearby fields. I imagine that the cats look grateful for the food I just gave them, but I could be wrong.

It's really a wonder I haven't yet gone crazy from being in this place.